Thursday 2.11.10

Dear Architect, (Images by Sean Airhart/NBBJ)

I carried the overhead projector and my box of transparencies down to the Great Steps. I plugged in, aimed the projector at the two-story white wall, pulled up a chair and began writing. I wrote letter and letter. For 5 hours, I wrote. The letters all began with the same salutation, “Dear Architect,” It was the building's turn to talk. I sat facing the projector, looking into the light, my arm resting on the light table. I weighed the way I was feeling with the way the building was feeling. I weighed what I’d learned with what I’d dreamt about buildings. I considered what a building might know and remember with what it might miss and long for. I considered the facts. This wall was solid. It had no window, no doorway, no stairs. I considered what every building wants to be with what this building was and how to reconcile those two. I took the opportunity to air my feelings, to give thanks, to question and make jokes.



Below are some sample letters.

Dear Architect,
Darling, I’m leaving you. You stood me up the other night and I just can’t accept that. There are other buildings out there, I know, who will catch your eye, have caught your eye. I need some time alone to think about things. I’ll call you.
Take care,
The Building

Dear Architect,
A quick note about that coffee stain on the floor. I’m over it. Not a big deal at all. I’m sorry I got so bent out of shape. You’re busy of course, and human. We all make mistakes. Forgive me for mentioning it.
Warmly,
The Building

Dear Architect,
I wanted to give you some flowers and say thank you for your glorious footfall, the movement you do through me all day. Of all the things, it resounds the most, moves my walls & floors & windows the most. It might be imperceptible to you, but to me—woah, O!
Many thanks,
The Building

Dear Architect,
From what are you sheltering yourself? To which points of light are you connecting? Which of the animals scares you most? You must face it then, that animal, that point of light. You must say, “You— wind, rain, cold, buzz, pest, obstacle to warmth & work, I defy you and only you within this place. All other things I invite.”
That is all.
The Building

Dear Architect,
Make me flexible. Make me sensual. Sensitive. Subject to shame and pride. Bring the rain inside. Let the sighs out. Open the windows. Let the ants march in and do their work. But don’t forget the trumpeter. Don’tt forget the elephants, the winged thing, the red ball in the attic. O give me an attic! Give me a place to store up my play and dreams and fears and wonderings. Let a river flow down my steps and pool for my pondering feet and eyes. Give me a cellar to catch and store my coolness. And give me ears to hear it all. O give me nothing I do not deserve!
Humbly,
The Building

Dear Architect,
I’m putting in for my vacation time. I’ve got three months saved up and I plan to use them this summer to travel down the Columbia River by sailboat. You’ll have to find a way to work without me, a new shelter system, while I’m gone. Certainly, without my walls, doors, windows, stairs and elevators, life will be different, but perhaps there’s something to be gained from going without and feeling the wind and rain for a while. Thank you for your assistance with this.
Respectfully yours,
The Building


Long Live Untitled [Intersection]

I finished up a last letter and rushed out at 3pm, by automobile, to meet with the folks at The Phinney Center. The short-term fate of my monthly series, Untitled [Intersection], would be determined today. After 3 years, my poetry & performance art series is morphing form a demanding showcase of artists to a sustainable experience in art. I'm meeting with the directors to feel out their interest in supporting this new format. And I’m determined, more than ever, to find the right home for this series. In part, I owe this calm pursuit to my work with NBBJ. Once you’ve been so well supported, it is hard to accept any less. Follow your heart.

Untitled [Intersection] began in 2007 as an invitational event. Two poets and a performance artist were brought together to present new work. The hope was that their work might find some overlap, cross-fertilize and invigorate. The new format, Write to Move, is about activating all sides into a living experience. It’s about exploring movement and translating that into writing. Each month, a new performer (dancer) will move for an hour while a group of artists and writers gather around to respond. Some will write. Some will draw. Others will compose scores for movement. The test-class in January yielded some exciting results and spurred a rich discussion of work and methods.